I Wool Always Love Ewe

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

Right, so I promised you a rant about yarn and you're gonna get one, slut puppy.

I'm a crocheter.  I fucking love to crochet.  If you're a knitter, piss off.  Kidding.  Solidarity, sisters and brothers of the fibre arts.  [Yeah, the British spell it 'fibre'.  Ew.]  My beloved, late grandmother taught me how when I was 8 and I've always felt like crocheting connected me to her, even after she died.  THEMS FEELS!

So, when I moved here in September 2011, I came armed only with two suitcases and a backpack.  Obviously, I had to be quite choosy about what I brought with me over the pond.  My mini case of crochet hooks made the cut.  (My grandmother had incidentally co-owned a crafts shop decades ago; when it went under she kept the entire stock of crochet hooks.  Hundreds.  I got them when she died; let's just say I'll never have to buy another crochet hook!)

My case looks a lot like this
(Incidentally, I brought my Golden Girls dvds, too.)

Unfortunately, I couldn't bring my massive stash of yarn with me from the States.  JUST TOO MUCH!  So, after a while of being in Britain, I realised yarn wasn't a readily available commodity.  I'd have to seek it out.  I asked around and someone said, 'try Hobbycraft'.  Oooh, 'sounds like Hobby Lobby; except hopefully less Bible-thumping', I thought, and off I went.  Two buses and two very lengthy walks later, I finally made it to Hobbycraft.  (I'll bitch about how hard it is to get around this island another day.)  I raced around, searching for yarn.  Where is it?  WHERE IS IT?  Upstairs, you say, Madam Sales Associate?  Upstairs I went.  THERE!  THERE IT IS!

It was the most disappointing moment of my life.  Or at least of that day.  I have no perspective.  There were just few measly shelves of shitty, shitty yarn.  Well, the British tend to call it 'wool' even if it contains no wool.  What's that about?

The yarns they had were SO EXPENSIVE, and so cheaply manufactured.  And not a recycled cotton to be found!  (This was, and is, my favourite type of yarn.)  I dug around in the tiny bins that day and walked away, nearly weeping, with three tiny skeins of hideous rose-pink 70% acrylic, 30% cotton blend.  It was the cottoniest thing I could get and I NEEDED my crocheting fix.  Oh, wait, did I forget to mention that I'm allergic to wool?  Like, wool wool?  BAH BAH BLACK SHEEP, STOP GIVING ME HIVES.

So, yeah, England.  You are such a disappointing place for a crocheter.  I miss my big chain craft shops where you can find ANYTHING.  I miss my tiny craft shops where you can get mega-deals.  (I've seen a couple of mum-and-pop [SHUT UP] craft shops here and they've all been mega-shit.  Sorry, but they are.)  I weep.  I weep.

If and when I'm Prime Ministress this will be the first thing I throw huge pots of money into.  Y'all need better yarn provisions.  I mean, YOU try putting an acrylic-cotton blended scarf around your neck and see if you don't get a rash.

Next time, I will analyse (i. e., COMPLAIN LOUDLY about) the British inability to pronounce the ordinal word 'sixth' correctly.

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

Introduction to my Observations

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

I remember reading O Henry's short stories when I was young(er) and impressionable(r) and thinking, 'wow, this guy:  he watches, he observes, he shows us ourselves in his words. . . .'  

This blog will be nothing like that.

Well, I do observe.  And I'll be doing that in my annoying, snarky way.  Welcome to Bodell-world, SUCKERS!

Now, here's the thing.  I moved to Britain on 15 September 2011.  Previous to that, I had lived a quarter century in the United States, primarily in Western Kentucky.

But now, I call the West Midlands home.  I guess.   I dunno.  I'm pretty peripatetic as it goes.  Got no roots, and all that.

Anyway, on 15 September 2011 I bought a phone.  Over the past two odd years I've jotted down notes about things I've seen on this bloody weird island in my phone.  I've recently acquired a new phone, so I gotta write this faeces* down right-stat-now or else risk losing its genius forever.

[*I employ British spellings.  I kind of have to; I'm a PhD student in History.  British history.  Kinda gotta do as the Romans do.  Though I have to say, why are they so scared of the letter 'z'?  They're so scared of it they can't even call it 'zee'--they call it 'zed'.  THESE GUYS!]

So, here's the first little nugget of weird Britishness for all you outsiders.  

The Rag-and-Bone Man

What is that you ask?  Well, we do have a sort of equivalent in America--the junkyard.  Except that's a stationary place.  The rag-and-bone man comes to you!  Except, here's how he comes to you:  by shouting some weird chanty chant (does anyone know what he's saying?) and squawking a loud horn while endlessly driving around your neighbourhood in a purpose-built truck (lorry?).  Have a look:

I saw one of these fellows on the first day I moved to Britain.  My landlord quickly pointed it out keen to play cultural interpreter to Outsiders.  

Yeah, so, that's about it.  It's just such a weird yet excruciatingly British occurrence.  Or at least it is to my eyes and ears.  Maybe they exist everywhere EXCEPT the bit of American where I lived.  If so, piss off.  I don't really care.  THIS IS STILL HILARIOUSLY ODD. 

Next time:  I complain about yarn.  Or what the British would (annoyingly) call 'wool'.

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.